Made in Russia
by ivegotitmemorized
Summary: A one-shot of Russia and England, I'm sorry if it isn't very accurate to the series...


England stood at the World Conference Meeting. "As a Christmas gift to you all, I will be granting one request per person this holiday season!"

A few rolled eyes and raised brows brought him back to his seat. "It's okay, England, it's the thought that counts." The whispered reassurance was followed by a stuffed bear landing in his lap.

"Thanks Canada," the crest-fallen brit passed the bear back, "But I really just need a drink. Want to go out tonight?" Of course, the quiet one passed.

"I'll drink with you. I have vodka."

England jumped at the creepily close voice behind him. It had come from Russia. He was sceptical, Russia was not the best company to keep. Then again... the vodka did sound nice...

Canada spoke to him in his usual whispery voice, "Go on, England," he winced as Russia turned his stare on him, "Go with Russia, that can be my request." Canada had actually been planning on using his request for a chance to speak at a conference meeting, but at least he was sacrificing that chance for England's happiness. That was surely better, and Canada's time to contribute would come.

The corners of Russia's mouth twitched up in the closest thing that could be called a smile. "Let's go then." England and Russia left the conference room, England following the other man rather nervously. They ended up in Russia's hotel room. The brit eyed a lead pipe, sitting in plain sight on the bed. Russia sat down next to it.

"So where's the vodka?"

Russia kicked open a mini-fridge placed conveniently beside the bed. It was full of several large, unopened bottles of the strong alcoholic beverage. He held up a pair of red plastic cups. England poured them each a glass.

"Bottoms up then!" He exclaimed, still quite nervous. After the first gulp, he felt a warm glow inside. While Russia topped off England's soon empty cup, the warmth had ebbed to a buzz.

***Three Glasses Later***

Russia was amazed at how drunk England was already. It's not like it was straight vodka either, the Brit had insisted on drinking it with tea after the first plain shot. Stupid English and their tea. Ruining all of Russia's fun. He, himself, had a very large tolerance for the drink after many years of practice. Russia despised of the vulnerability that accompanied intoxication.

"I... I will tell you something, R...Russia..." England slurred, hiccupping loudly, "You... you scare the... the bloody Hell out of me!" He laughed at such a volume, Russia was surprised no neighbouring rooms had complained. He tried to smile, but only managed a petulant smirk.

England's face suddenly grew serious. "Do you... do you see them?"

"Do I see who?" This man was obviously insane, maybe Russia should send him to a doctor of some sort...

England's smile stretched entirely across his face, "The faaaiiiries, Russia!" He clapped his hands and giggled as he fell over off the bed. Russia raised an eyebrow.

Scratch that. No doctor could help.

"...Fairies?" England sat up and nodded. He spread his arms wide as he stood up.

"They're all over, Russia! Look at them! OH! There's one there!" England ran to the open window, he laughed and leaned out, stretching as if to grab something (someone?). "I'm gonna get yooouuuu!"

Russia contemplated giving the poor, mad man a final push out the window. Instead, he grabbed the back of England's shirt, pulled him in, and pressed him against the wall.

"I have a request." He said suddenly.

England's eyes lit up and filled with tears. "You're excepting... my Christmas gift? Really?"

Russia rolled his eyes. "I am. Become one with Russia." He demanded bluntly. England laughed. "How would I do that, siiilly? Bloody Hell!"

Russia paused, then leaned in and planted the slightest, softest kiss on England's lips.

The Brit laughed, "Am I one with Russia now?" Russia pushed him onto the hotel bed.

"Not yet."

England awoke the next morning with a killer hangover in an unknown hotel room. All he wore were a pair of black and red boxers.

"What the...?" The Brit looked at the plastic cups scattered across the floor. "And these... are not mine..." He checked the tag on boxers.

All they said were: Made in Russia.


End file.
